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Title: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 22, July, 1921 - America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 22, July, 1921

_It’s Coming!_

_A Laugh, a Sigh; a Smile, a Tear; a Giggle, a Sob, and the greatest
collection of red-blooded gems._

                            THE WINTER ANNUAL
                             Captain Billy’s
                                WHIZ BANG
                   “_Pedigreed Follies of 1921-1922_”
                           On Sale in October

All new jokes, jests and jingles; Captain Billy’s Advice to the Lovelorn;
and Smokehouse Poetry comprising a collection of the best red-blooded
poems in the world. Republication of “The Blue Velvet Band,” “The Face
on the Barroom Floor,” “Shooting of Dan McGrew,” “Toledo Slim,” “Lasca,”
“Evolution,” and “Johnnie and Frankie.” Four times as large and four
times as great. Only three months to wait.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If you like our Farmyard    / Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang,
    Filosophy and Foolishness, / R.R.2, Robbinsdale, Minn.
    fill in this coupon.      / Enclosed is money order (or
                             / check) for subscription commencing
    $2.50 per               / with .................. issue
    year.                  /            MONTH
                         / Name ............................
                        / Street ...........................
                       / City & State ......................

                            _Captain Billy’s
                               Whiz Bang_


                         _America’s Magazine of
                             Wit, Humor and

                     July, 1921      Vol. II. No. 22

                            Published Monthly
                    W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
                        at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

     Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post-office
                  at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the
                          Act of March 3, 1879.

                   Price 25 cents      $2.50 per year

        Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication
             of any part permitted when properly credited to
                        Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

           “We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is
           loyalty to the American People.”—Theodore Roosevelt

                             Copyright 1921
                            By W. H. Fawcett


              Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and
         dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States.

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

My friend Norton took me around Minneapolis recently on an evening’s
jaunt to see the “sights.” After visiting two or three moonlit stores,
Norton suggested that I be introduced to his sweetheart. Brother Norton,
being fairly well varnished with fusel oil and white mule, called at the
wrong house. A colored maid answered the door bell.

“Is (hic) Daisy at home?” he inquired.

“No, suh,” replied the maid.

“Then is Pansy here?” said Norton.

“No, suh.”

“Does Violet live here?”

“No, suh.”

“Then is (hic) Rose in?”

“No, suh, and look here, Mistuh, dis place ain’t no hot house.”

After which I led Brother Norton back to the flivver and we sojourned to
Dutch’s stag cafe for the remainder of the evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

I’ve found another use for my flivver: Deacon Miller’s suckling colt
followed old Lizzie for half a mile the other day.

       *       *       *       *       *

While at my Breezy Point cabin resort at Pequot I heard an interesting
story regarding the manner in which young Indian men woo their

When the Indian feels a tug at his heart he will station himself with
a tom-tom in front of the tepee of his beloved and beat frantically on
the drum affair. If the girl loves him she comes out and the medicine
man does the rest. If she scorns his love she places a snow-shoe at the
wigwam entrance and the young chief goes back to his own tepee and keeps
on beating his tom-tom until some squaw girl takes pity and marries him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Maggie, our new harvest cookhouse chef, lost her brooch the other night,
so she has prepared the following advertisement for the Whiz Bang:
“LOST—A cameo brooch representing Venus and Adonis on the Robbinsdale
road about ten o’clock on Wednesday evening.”

       *       *       *       *       *

We’ve had a good laugh on our neighbor, Deacon Callahan, since the
episode several of us witnessed in front of the Palace Shoe Store in
Robbinsdale the other evening. The Deacon saw his wife coming down the
street, so he hid in the doorway of the Palace. When she passed him, he
jumped out suddenly and kissed her. Instead of the scream he expected,
she hoarsely whispered: “Don’t be so bold, mister. Folks ’round here know

       *       *       *       *       *

Johnnie Beaton, of Ranier, Minn., tells about a period in his life when
old John Law grabbed out and placed him in the Ranier calaboose. He had
been inside but a short time when one of the local civic improvement
“birds” handed him the usual circular asking a donation for the
improvement of the local jail. Johnnie replied: “The present jail is good
enough to suit me.” Half an hour later, he organized a stud poker game.
As usual, the sucker squawked. His reply to the saphead was pert and to
the point: “Sh! keep still. Do you want to get thrown out of here?”

       *       *       *       *       *

The “no booze” edict for soldiers during the recent friction with Germany
raised havoc with some of us rum-soaked sinners, but it also had its
comical side at times. I remember a system I put into effect in Camp Lee.
The first sergeant was informed that no passes would be granted to visit
Pennsylvania points (Pennsy was wet) unless the fortunate man returned
with proper credentials, said credentials to be deposited upon arrival in
the top drawer of the skipper’s desk in the orderly room. It was my duty
to check properly the pass“port.”

In our organization was a lieutenant whom we will call Evans for short.
Once upon a time Evans was in a mess (he often was, as far as that goes,
but this time I mean a mess where we eat), and in that mess there also
was a colonel—a man of meanness and incidentally a strict teetotaller.
This colonel saw, or thought he saw, in Evans a gentleman after his own
heart—a steady, yea, even puritanical, officer.

One early morning, Evans returned from a pass to Altoona, Pa., and
flopped his weary way to the mess hall. Collapsing in a seat, he played
with his fork and tried to look sober for a few minutes, and then giving
it up he concentrated on grub—or rather on waiters.

Near the mantelpiece in the mess stood what appeared to Evans to be the
waiter on duty, and he addressed this person—the only other person in the
mess—rather gruffly, I’m afraid.

“Heah—hic—orderly!” he exploded. “D’yuh think I’m—hic—sitting
here—hic—merely to provide you—hic—with a spectacle? I want some food....”

“I’m afraid, lieutenant,” came the acid reply, “that you are providing me
with a spectacle.”

“Good Gawsch!” spluttered Evans. “I thought you were an orderly. I beg
pardon, major; I didn’t shee you were the—hic—colonel.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Speaking of abbreviated dress brings to mind a recent occurrence in the
St. Paul ball park, whence I had flivvered to watch Minneapolis lose to
the Saints. Coming out, after the game, I bumped into a small boy who had
become lost in the crowd. Upon inquiring why he was crying, he howled:
“I lost my mama.” “Why didn’t you hold to her skirts?” I asked. “I tried
to,” wept the kid, “but I couldn’t reach them.”

_Our Movie Gossips_

    _California society whisperers frown on Edna Purviance’s
    rumored engagement to scion of Los Angeles wealth? Can it be
    Larry Semon “beat up” his leading lady, Lucille Carlisle? And
    Katherine McDonald has something to worship! The male sissy of
    the screen! Natalie Talmadge may find a snag in Buster Keaton’s
    backyard? Join our monthly movie gossip club! These dainty
    morsels are gathered by the Hollywood correspondent of this
    great family journal._


Of all girls in the movies, Edna Purviance has the softest snap. In the
last year and a half, almost two years, Charlie Chaplin has only made one
picture, “The Kid,” which barely occupied more than a few weeks of Edna’s
time. It’s true Edna doesn’t earn much compared to the other stars or
leading women of the screen—they say her contract with Charlie gives her
only $100 a week—but she has time—loads of it—and Edna plays the social
game in that spare time and doesn’t appear to worry her pretty head about
her career or future fame. She has an attractive but modest apartment, a
not too expensive car and maid and puts everything on her clothes, which
are of the smartest.

About two years ago Carleton Burke of Los Angeles began to “rush” Edna.
Carleton is considered the catch of the Pacific coast. He is wealthy—his
family is A-1 socially, Carleton is handsome, traveled and well educated
and has made a name as a polo player. He is also a member of all the
exclusive men’s clubs in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Well, of course, when Carleton first took up Edna there was much
whispering concerning a Venice bungalow, after Charlie “discovered” the
fair manicurist in a small town near Frisco Bay. Could she be received?
If Carleton Burke meant to marry her, of course, she’d be taken up
eventually anyhow, and the Burkes are not the sort of people you can
snub. So Carleton’s sister, Louise, entertained Edna. The Claus Spreckels
at Coronada did the same and a few other of the selects followed the
lead. Edna accepted these favors with a very calm and ladylike demeanor
quite as if she had a perfect right to the best of social life, and
she created a favorable impression. Edna has sense enough not to carry
vulgar studio movie talk into the drawing rooms of people who wouldn’t
understand. She is never forward or bold and, with her undeniable beauty,
is surely an asset to any function.

However, Carleton has continued to take Edna about—to the Midwick and
other exclusive country clubs, but marriage has never “come off.”
Through Burke, Edna became acquainted with Mrs. Sallie Polk Merritt of
Pasadena—an attractive brunette of social standing but whose name has
been mentioned in a few sensational divorce mix-ups. Sallie and Edna are
bosom friends and go everywhere together.

It is now whispered about Los Angeles that the Burke family has decided
against the marriage.

Rather hard on Edna if she loves him, isn’t it? We don’t really know
whether she cares particularly or not.

       *       *       *       *       *

Can it be that Larry Semon spanks his leading lady love, Lucille
Carlisle, when she doesn’t do as he likes? There was such a violent
spanking in the environs of the Vitagraph lot recently, that Lucille
retired to a hospital for a rest, and a new leading lady replaced her.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is said the beautiful Katherine Macdonald, picture star, earns a mere
$40,000 per picture now. Despite the fact that Katherine looks eternally
sad in her pictures and shows not a glimmer of cheer or sense of humor,
people like to gaze on the American beauty and her clothes. Anyhow her
backers must make a profit or they wouldn’t come through with the “40
thou.” Now, it is said Katherine saves nearly every cent. She is reported
quite the most saving woman on the screen.

The social set like Katherine because she doesn’t get spiflicated
and run around with promiscuous ordinary movie folk, and because she
holds herself “cold and high.” The studio folk on her own lot say
she is “hard,” and that she won’t let them hire blondes for her
pictures because the sunlight has a way of making light hair stand out
conspicuously, and thus detracts from her own person.

Every week or so a San Francisco man named Morrell comes south, and they
say he visits Katherine. The couple are engaged, it is said, and when
her two-year contract is up, intend to marry and quit business for good.
Friends say they are both saving carefully toward that day.

The arithmetical problem is this: If Morrell earns “X” salary and
Katherine $40,000 per picture or about $240,000 a year, how much salt and
pepper will Morrell’s savings buy two years from now? How many steaks and
cream puffs can Katherine buy?

       *       *       *       *       *

In a recent issue we dealt somewhat with the male sissy whose devastating
inroads have made themselves particularly felt in this Egyptianesque
hotbed of art, near art and the no end of things for which poor art is

Our readers will recall that some months ago a very noted “heavy” of the
films, a man nearing the fifties and with a wealth of apparent masculine
comeliness, was arrested in company with another male person after a
perfectly inquisitive detective had watched them through a keyhole of the
film star’s home.

Broken in the prime of life, an object of scorn and with others fearing
to be seen in his company, even for business purposes, his plight is
a sorry one. More seldom as the months pass does his white head and
Romanesque profile appear upon the screen.

There is grim humor in the plight of this man. The name of an immensely
rich woman was mentioned in connection with his arrest. It was intimated
that he had grown cold in his attentions to her and that the detective
who trapped the two men was well paid with feminine gold. She must have
suspected something.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wedding bells and hopeful love of man and woman seems to have broken out
afresh in the picture world. Wasn’t it in an issue four months back that
we confidentially confided to our readers that Charlie Chaplin was openly
adoring a sweet young thing of seventeen? Just about four months after
we cheered you with this item, the daily papers declaimed that all signs
and portents were to the effect that May Collins was to become the second
bride of the comedian.

Needless to say, Miss Collins by this time has been “interviewed.” With
the awe-striking wisdom of seventeen—some say she is younger—the girl
sets forth, or so she is quoted, a panacea for marriage ills. She did not
admit she was going to marry Charlie but she wasted no space in praising
anyone but him. It appears that if May marries Charlie that the path of
true art will not be tampered with and if Charles wishes to remain out on
business, or otherwise further his picture activities, that May will not
offer hindrance.

Mildred Harris, too, was seventeen when she married Charlie and
complained that the boy stayed away too much. Should May and Charlie hook
up we may be able to watch the theories of two seventeen-year-old misses
work out, as regards their ideas of what the lord and master should do.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Buster Keaton goes out in the evening he takes his whole family.
There are so many of them we’ve lost count. Anyhow, when he goes down
to Sunset Inn at Santa Monica the waiters have to move three tables and
put them together so that all Buster’s family can be seated. There are
several sisters and as many younger brothers and a “Pa” and lots of aunts
and uncles. And Buster cheerfully pays the bill.

A little incident has been reported to the correspondent of this great
family journal. It appears Buster had been out with some lady of whom
his father objected, or had done something which his “Pa” didn’t like
and there was an argument over at the Metro studio. “Pa” perhaps hasn’t
forgotten his ancient and pleasant right of parental authority. However,
Buster is resourceful. It is said he put “Pa” in his dressing-room and
locked him up for the night, going on about his own business thereafter.

We wonder, if, when Natalie Talmadge marries Buster this spring, she will
have to lock his family in the closets occasionally in order to prevent
little rows!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Tale of a Shirt

Comfort, the farmers’ journal, says this: Is there any way for a girl to
tell her sweetheart his shirt-tail is out? The same way she would tell
her brother or cousin or any friend. A sweetheart’s shirt-tail is no more
sacred or worthy of respect than any other shirt-tail. A tail belongs to
a shirt as much as cuffs or a collar and isn’t any more indecent. I’d
tell anyone to tuck his shirt in—just like that.

       *       *       *       *       *

My girl is so fat she wears inner tubes for garters.

       *       *       *       *       *

All Aboard for Arkansaw

    Mama’s got eczema,
    Papa’s got the gout,
    I’ve got something itchy coo;
    It’s just breakin’ out.

       *       *       *       *       *

No Caveman Stuff Here

“Oh Jane, how have you been getting on with Ed?”

“Not very well, Dolly; I’ve had to buy only two hair nets for my last
five dates with him.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Garden of Eden

“I’ll peel off,” said the apple.

“If you do, I’ll leave,” said the tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

Especially When the North Wind Blows

She was a silly little, gushing thing, and habitually talked without
thinking, and in the exaggerated fashion which the female of the species
at present affects. Lately married, she was able to induce her adoring
hubby to go with her on shopping expeditions. Even when the tour included
a visit to an establishment where the most intimate of feminine garments
were on sale, he did not flinch.

In one such shop, the discreet manageress inquired as to whether a
certain set of silken unmentionables, recently purchased, had given full

The little bride’s eyes grew round.

“Oh, they were beautiful!” she burst out, in her usual fashion.
“Everybody admired them—everybody!”

Turning pale, the unfortunate bridegroom didn’t know for a moment whether
to file for congress or go out and get a stiff drink of moonshine.

       *       *       *       *       *

She had a sore throat, and was unable to sing, so the manager buzzed
her off to the theater’s medical man the tooter the sweeter. The doc.
produced his laryngoscope, and as he was adjusting it he pleasantly
remarked, “You’d be surprised how far we can see with this little

“Oh, is that so, doctor?” she faltered. “Well, it can’t be helped, but I
ought to tell you that I really had no time to change my things before I
came out.”

_Whiz Bang Etiquette_

Is your etiquation on etiquette inetiquate? Do you pull the faux pas,
gaucherie, vulgarian, and other boners too humorous to mention?

Read these questions thoughtlessly, study the answers carelessly and add
both to your misinformation on this subject:

What do you know about introductions?

If Green and Brown met at your home brewery for the first time, would you
say, “Green, meet Brown. Boys, have a drink,” or vice versa? Suppose the
Siamese Twins dropped in about that time to borrow your recipe for double
brew. Would you present them plurally or en mash?

Don’t introduce them; familiarity breeds a thirst.

The ballroom should always be a center of (physical) culture and grace.

What is the correct position for the gentleman in dancing?

Cheek to cheek.

For the lady?

Vice versa.

Is it correct to wander away from the ballroom with a dancing partner?

If you become delirious, you may wander.

Is the “shimmy” done in the best society?



Like a bowl of jello in an earthquake.

Should one try to dance if they do not know the steps?

No, that would brand you as a hopeless vulgarian.

Should one crack jokes about the ladies’ gowns?

No, your conversation should not be confined to trivialities.

If a girl asks you in when you escort her home from the ball at 3 a. m.,
should you accept her invitation?

Politely decline, and give me her address.

Every dinner should begin with a little soup and less noise.

Should the lady of the house help the soup?

Yes, if it needs it.

What would you do if you made a wine stain on a lady’s dress?

Help her to remove it, the stain.

Should you decline wine by clapping your hand on top of your glass?

I wouldn’t.

Should water be taken directly from a finger bowl?

No, a soup ladle is placed at each plate for this purpose.

Etiquette is used in many other ways, but these few simple-minded rules
will get you out of some of the worst places.

_A Dilemna De Luxe_


It was embarrassing, to say the least! The young man strove vainly to
retain his equilibrium, also his hold upon the inert form in his arms.
But the color mounted in a vivid flush of red to his very blonde hair.

Then the nearby group of watchers laughed. He was still more confused.
The auburn locks of the fair figure in his arms became loosened and fell
in a cascade almost to the floor. The man was visibly disconcerted, and
letting go with one hand, he clutched at his collar and gazed wildly down
at the cold, upturned face.

With a renewed effort to escape the taunting eyes of the curious,
snickering crowd, he gathered the slim figure to him once more, when a
shout went up and, looking back, he saw that the gown he had hastily
loosened at the neck of the fair vision when he had first come upon the
scene, had slipped off and lay in a soft silken heap at his feet. He was
painfully aware that all that remained to view was the daintiest of filmy
lingerie, and sheer, silken hosiery. One tiny pump had fallen off.

The young man thought he would faint if he did not escape the crowd
that had rapidly grown to a curious mob. The sight of a very flushed
youth, holding the limp female figure in his awkward arms, scantily
clad, beautiful face impassive, instead of exciting sympathy, brought
forth only mirth at his clumsy attempts to withdraw. Evidently such an
experience had never occurred to the embarrassed youth before, but he
rallied and finally reached the door.

As he started through, carefully, almost tenderly holding the lovely
form, the delicate crepe de chine underslip caught on the little glass
doorknob; to his utter chagrin, he let go altogether, leaning against the
framework of the door; this was too much!

Wildly he thought of abandoning his duty, when the stern voice of a very
dapper, wax-mustached, and excited gentleman who forced his way through
the door, brought him up with a jerk.

“What ees the matter with you?” almost shrieked the head floorwalker of
“The Elite Modes” shop. “Look, look!” he cried, gesticulating wildly,
“worse than ze bull in ze china-closet! Go back to where you belong, and
stay there!”

The new window dresser of “The Elite Modes” gave one look at the broken
nose of the wax window-model which he had dropped, and fled—back to his
old love, the gingham department!

       *       *       *       *       *

“It is forty years since my husband even kissed me,” complained a woman
in Hennepin county divorce court.

There is much pathos in that “even.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Sinai Joke

A bishop who had been widely advertised for a speech at Westminster
Abbey, was greeted by a record-breaking audience. The famous Abbey was
crowded to the doors.

As the bishop stepped to the rostrum and opened the good book he said, “I
will take for my text today, ‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai, What
did he say?’” And, looking at those assembled in the balcony, he said
again, in a louder voice, “‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai, What
did he say?’” And once again, looking upward to the gallery, he shouted
(as if waiting for an answer), “‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai,
What did he say?’”

A little Australian buddy, unable to contain himself any longer, rose
from his place in the rear and, standing on his seat, raised his hand:
“I’ll bite, bishop, wot did ’e say?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Nice Burglar

“Oh, Myrtle! Weren’t you frightened to death when that burglar broke into
your room?”

“Frightened is no name for it; I was dressing.”

“Mercy, how embarrassing! Whatever did you do?”

“Oh, he was very considerate, he covered me with his revolver.”

       *       *       *       *       *

She may be deaf but she’ll get her hearing the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

Out of the Past

A rookie, all dolled up in his new uniform and ready for first liberty,
strutted down the steps of the barracks and met the colonel coming up.
The silver eagles of the colonel’s shoulder straps meant nothing in
this rookie’s young life, and he was about to pass with only a casual
glance. The colonel, feeling somewhat different, addressed the lad in an
impressive voice: “Young man, how long have you been here?” The rookie’s
face radiated surprise and gladness at having thus been noticed by an
apparent old timer, and he eagerly replied: “Why, I been here three days,
how long you been here?”

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Label

                                OLD CORNO
                                100 Poof
                             Bottled In Barn
                              Aged In Woods
                         MADE OUT OF SPRING 1919
                           BOTTLED ALL OF 1920
         Guaranteed to Conform with All Pure Fool and Drunk Acts

       *       *       *       *       *

“It says in this paper that Lloyd George castigated the German
delegates,” growled Panhandle Pete, glancing up from a paper all stained
with near-beer.

“And that’s just what they had a-comin’,” vigorously assented his pal.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is easy to be generous to another man’s wife.

_Limber Kicks_

Oh, I Beg Your Pardon!

    I stepped inside and closed the door,
        Thinking the office was Brady’s,
    But turned when I saw the white tiled floor,
        And found that the sign read SEIDAL

       *       *       *       *       *

Winding Stares

    She went up the winding stairs,
    And close behind I followed;
    She stooped down to tie her shoe,
    My chewing gum I swallowed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page Billy Misque

    A girl who is young, cute and frisque,
    Can always get plenty of home-made whisque;
        Any guy she may asque
        Will slip her a flasque,
    If she’ll only slip him a kissque.

       *       *       *       *       *

    In a parlor were three,
    My girl, a lamp and me.
    Three’s a crowd without a doubt,
    Wasn’t it nice when the lamp went out?

       *       *       *       *       *

At the Sign of the Zodiac

    The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins;
    Near the Crab the Lion shines;
    The Virgin and the Scales;
    The Scorpion, Archer and the Goat;
    The Man who holds the Watering Pot,
    And Fishes with their glittering tails.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shoo Fly, Oil Man!

    A horse-fly lit on the old cow’s skin,
    Hung his tools and spudded in.
    Bowed his back and jiggered his pole
    And all the time he was making a hole.
    The cow browsed on, in her usual way,
    Till the horse-fly’s bit struck regular “pay,”
    Then she swung her tail with a vicious dig
    And deftly skidded the horse-fly’s rig.

       *       *       *       *       *


    A handsome young fellow named Bertie,
    Was out with a flapper named Gertie;
          “Come, kiss me,” he said,
          But she nodded her head
    And cried, “I think kissing’s too unsanitary.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Bawl of a Brute Bachelor

    Here’s to the woman of days gone by;
        (May we meet her kind above!)
    The woman for whom a man would die,
        The woman who ruled by love;
    Who didn’t harangue and who didn’t parade,
        In whose home it was sweet to dwell;
    Who believed in raising children,
        And not in raising hell!

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Why so thin, my pretty maid?”
    “I’m on a fast, kind sir,” she said.
    “And how fast are you now?” he said,
    “That’s none of your affair,” she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lady of the House—You may go to your room now and change your dress.
John, the butler, will show you the way.

Maid (fussed)—Oh, I know how myself, missus.

_California Beach Nuts_


Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

California’s coast is a big bathing beach. The state is not only famous
for its walnuts, but for its beach nuts one sees every day, especially

The ocean strand is covered with half-dressed women, boys and girls
sprawled out like goats and satyrs hugging the shore and each other. It
is the playground of the sexes.

At many bathing resorts Sunday is anything but religious. The cross
gives way to Cupid’s bow and arrow. The Bible is the book of nature
done in calf. Brown lads lie with their heads in the laps of half-naked
brunettes, forgetting that to do so and not mean harm is “hypocrisy to
the devil” who tempts their virtue. They make no attempt to hide under
beach umbrellas. One may question their propriety, but neither their
nerve nor shape. Their speech is low, but if actions speak louder than
words, their conduct is often vulgar if not vicious. We saw a place
advertised as the “safest beach,” but without falling into the deep
water we fear the devil’s undertow is carrying many out beyond their
moral depth. “Love one another” is the favorite text, and the “laying
on of hands” is not omitted. All the flesh-pots were not in Egypt.
Cleopatra had a good time on the Nile and “Clara” has the same time here.
We saw many couples and decided that more marriages were made on the
beach than in heaven. Position in society is everything. Here there was
everything in position. Heads in laps, arms around waists, boys in girls’
laps, girls in boys’, legs linked, or arms and legs tied up in lover’s
bow-knots. All were taking “Sea”estas in their “surge” suits. The sight
was very “surf”eiting. In this Cupid school we saw girls with pearly
teeth, but with no pearls of wisdom; many who could paint their face,
but not paint a Madonna; girls who could play with the boys, but not the
piano; the only apparent study was that of anatomy.

Breakers on the beaches are divided into three classes: ocean-breakers,
law-breakers and heart-breakers. California is a fruit state and we
looked everywhere to see the “peaches” on the beaches—but most of them
were dried, and there were more old Iowa valetudinarians and bearded
bipeds than anyone else. Timon of Athens was a misanthrope who went to
the seashore to get away from mankind. Had he come to this beach, the day
we were there, he would have prayed for a tidal wave to wipe it off the

Scripture says of the beautiful lilies, “they toil not, neither do they
spin.” Of these painted, half-dressed, lounging, walking, posturing
beach-combers with their dry feet, we say, “They toil not, neither do
they swim.” We came away from the beach that Sunday with a composite
picture of pop-eyed, pot-bellied promenaders in the sand, vulgar Venuses,
wobbly wenches, living links, heavy-hipped hags, sinuous, shrunken men,
tattered tights, tousled head nymphs, and vain cock of the walks admiring
their own shape and gazing on their feet and fingernails.

We wish we could forget the bather’s singularity and angularity, the
plethoric paunch, the blinking, bawling, calling, sprawling, mawling,
drawling, squalling figures that defaced the beauty of the sky, the sea
and the sand. Oh, the water cataracts running and dripping from shaking
sides, heavy hips and swinging busts! If Ulysses and his crew sailed by
this shore with its sweating sirens and howling hurdy-gurdies, they would
stop their ears—but not for fear of being enticed ashore.

The poet sings of the “smile” of the sea—we do not wonder at laughing
waves when they see some of the freak styles. What are the wild waves
saying? Some things we think we better omit. To watch this beach of
bathers is like having a front seat at the Winter Garden Follies. The
visitor may study the contour of beach and bathers. Here he meets
the living skeleton of angles and the bag of bones, as well as her
heavy-set sister with all her capricious curves, crests, elevations and
depressions. How unlike the pictures in the Sunday supplements, and how
like the caricatures in the comic supplement. When first they appear all
nice and dry they are passable, but look at them if you dare and can,
when they take a dip or flop and come out with their homely lines all
emphasized. No Greek statues, no things of beauty and joy forever, but
shattered, disenchanting dreams, or nightmares rather.

Farewell to this flotsam and jetsam, foam and scum, these sand-flies.
If you want to have a “good time,” go to the beach where the volume of
nature and human nature is “wide open.” The text books you should bring
and study on the seashore are Shelley, Burns, Sand, Crabbe and Bacon.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Dickory, dickory, docking,
    The mouse ran up her stocking,
        But I’m afraid
        Up there it stayed
    Which makes it twice as shocking!

       *       *       *       *       *

A marriage certificate is a mere scrappy paper. One divorce leads to
another, but the marriage vow will always be taken ad-in-fun-item.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nice day for swimmin’!

What swimmin’?

Loo swimmin’.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Your new stenog, I hear, is a beauty. Can she spell?”

“What does that matter?”

_Questions and Answers_

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is meant by “A third rail girl?”—=Inoa Recipe.=

It probably means one dangerous to touch.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is your idea of the height of
indifference?—=Goofey Gander.=

Spilling coffee in your lap and not caring which leg it runs down.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the difference between kissing a horse and
an ugly girl?—=Paul Bearer.=

No difference whatever. In either case it’s a horse on you.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—I am a great lover of literature, but find that
friends borrow my books to read. Did you ever hear of anything like
it?—=Oliver Mudd.=

We know an old fogy who married a flapper.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—My sweetheart got angry at me last night and said I
had feet like a camel. What did he mean?—=Rebeccah.=

He probably inferred that your feet had gone too long without water.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Capt. Whiz Bang=—A friend informs me his wife ran away with a “bank
walker.” I have heard of bank tellers and bank cashiers, but never heard
of a “bank walker.” Please tell me what he meant?—=Bob Sledd.=

Your query has been referred to the swimming editor.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Will you please tell me the origin of the
expression: “Mother, who is this silly ass?”—=S. O. Elly.=

It originated in France after the close of the war when a poilu returned
and, finding his home disrupted, left again to vow further vengeance on
the German.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Cap=—Please tell me how to grow fat.—=Slim Jim.=

Breed hogs.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is a cure for a horse that slobbers?—=Artie

Teach him to spit.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—What is the difference between a sewing machine and a
kiss?—=B. Qrious.=

One sews seams nice and the other seams sew nice.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Whiskers=—What is a crazy bone?—=Howe D. Dew.=

A dollar spent on a girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Kapten Billy=—An electriek trolly goes through my corn feild. Would
it be against the law to uze it to shock my corn with?—=O. G. Kroakim.=

No, but be careful and not let the juice wet the kernels.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—What is meant by “self respect”?—=Dottie Dimple.=

Self respect, Dottie, is a comfortable feeling one has in having escaped

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear “Skipper”=—Who was the Duke of Peruna?—=C. C. Pill.=

Lydia Pinkham’s husband.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Please give me a definition of a cannibal.—=Student.=

Sure. One who loves his fellow man.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—Kindly furnish me with an illustration of “Poetry of
Motion.”—=Awsthetic Awlice.=

How would this be: A picnic girl with a bug down her back?

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—Do leaves of trees turn red in the fall from blushing
because they are showing naked limbs?—=Bon Jurrows.=

No, it’s because they realize how green they were all summer.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—I had a tussle with my beau last night. How may I
recover myself?—=Petite Fifi.=

Go to a tailor.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Capt. Billy=—I am ambitious for a career on the stage. Can you
suggest an act that will be entirely new and up-to-date?—=Art Gumm.=

Why not try kicking a giraffe in the mouth?

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Cap=—I am a member of a newly formed organization known
as the “Woman Hater’s Union.” Could you suggest a motto for our
association?—=Fat Chance.=

“Oh, kill me now and call it the end of a perfect day.”

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—When is a good girl not a good girl?—=McNotty.=

About half the time, we’d say.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the difference between a rehearsal and a
show?—=Plain Jane.=

A rehearsal is the same as a show, only nobody comes around to see it.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bullybeef=—My fiance says I have a peachy complexion. What
does he mean?—=Kitty Furr.=

He probably infers, Kitty, that you have a yellow and orange shade with
fuzz on your face.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Doctor Bill=—Why, oh why, did the police inspect her?—=The Duke o’

Possibly to help the “deek” detect her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A convalescent requiring whisky and beer for rapid recovery is
convalescent all over except his thirst, and that’s in the acute stages.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another Jellyfish

“Boys,” asked the school master, “what do you consider the most beautiful
thing in the world?”

“Sunshine,” hazarded one boy.

“Flowers,” ventured another.

Both answers were received with favor, and the turn went to a hefty youth.

“A woman,” announced he gruffly.

“Come out here,” commanded the master, sternly.

A good flogging was administered; and then the offender was bidden to go
home and tell his father that he had been flogged, and why.

Next morning the floggee was again hauled up.

“Did you tell your father that you had been flogged?” asked the master.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him why?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he say?”

“Please, sir, dad and I talked it all over between us, and we’ve come to
the conclusion that there’s something funny about you.”

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”

Press dispatches recently carried an item to the effect that although
slightly mentally affected, the mother of Charlie Chaplin, upon her son’s
earnest persuasion, had been allowed to enter this country from England.

Mrs. Chaplin, upon reaching New York, stood a chance, it was stated, of
having to return had it not been for quick and effective energies of her
sons and their friends in political power.

Those who know Chaplin well declare that the intense melancholy for which
he is noted is due more than anything else to the affection and concern
for his mother. Such things as domestic troubles, it is said, bear little
weight with the man who daily makes millions laugh. ’Tis the mother.

What have we here! Consider this monumental fun-maker of the screen.
Death is bad enough but when the mind of one very dear becomes clouded,
then indeed does tragedy and sadness smite with a heavy hand.

We read of the circus clown whose wife and children burned to death, and
yet, to keep a date with the world of fun lovers, he went ahead that
night and clowned as never he had clowned before. Have we in Chaplin a
great tragedy also? It will be recalled that when he was a small boy in
London he and his mother and brother lived in a workhouse in order that
the streets might not be their home.

Now his mother is coming home to him, to live amid all the luxury that
great wealth may bring; wealth that came after a sad little fellow with
merry feet, living in a workhouse with his mother, learned to be the
greatest of all fun-makers. Life’s a funny proposition, folks, isn’t it?

       *       *       *       *       *

Half a century ago the nude in art was strange enough in America to
uplift Puritanic hands in holy horror. Today, among all cultivated
people, the female nude is most matter-of-fact. Our notions of art the
country over have been steadily clarifying, until at last the great
distinction has been recognized and conceded even by pious folk that,
while the human male figure is impossible, the female form is purely

Those rabid for realism and resolutely uncompromising, will have the
assurance to claim innocuousness for the undraped male; but the opinion
today among those who are not extremists is still definitely against the
frank exposition of the male form in plastic or painting.

At worst the mind receives merely a filip of interest; and complete
nudity, to the male fancy, repeated again and again in art, speedily
sates curiosity, and with that, incipient desire. As for the minds
of women, no one would insult them with the suspicion that they find
anything provocative in the portrayal of figures of their own sex.

In every landscape the eye notices at once and unavoidably the hills; it
finds the plains and valleys only by an effort of the will. This fact has
ever been admitted by the modern stage, which is, so far as the ethics of
objective morality go, more conservative than modern art in its advanced

       *       *       *       *       *

Be a Booster

    If you can’t be a pine on the top of the hill,
      Be a scrub in the valley, but be
    The best little scrub by the side of the hill,
      Be a bush if you can’t be a tree;
    If you can’t be the sun be a star,
    But the best little booster wherever you are.

       *       *       *       *       *

Teach me that 60 minutes make an hour, 16 ounces one pound and 100 cents
one dollar. Help me so to live that I can lie down at night with a clear
conscience, without a gun under my pillow and unhaunted by the faces of
those to whom I have brought pain. Grant that I may earn my meal-ticket
on the square, and that in earning it I may do unto others as I would
have them do unto me. Deafen me to the jingle of tainted money and to
the rustle of unholy skirts. Blind me to the faults of the other fellow
but reveal to me my own. Guide me so that each night when I look across
the dinner table at my wife who has been a blessing to me, I will have
nothing to conceal. Keep me young enough to laugh with little children,
and sympathetic enough to be considerate of old age. And when comes
the day of darkened shades and the smell of flowers, the tread of soft
footsteps and the crunching of wheels in the yard—make the ceremony short
and the epitaph simply ‘=Here Lies a Man.=’

       *       *       *       *       *

    He that does not know,
    And knows he does not know;
    Can be taught.
        TEACH HIM!

    He that does not know,
    But thinks he knows;
    Is a dangerous man.
        BEWARE OF HIM!

    He that does know.
    And knows he knows;
    Is a wise man—
        FOLLOW HIM!

       *       *       *       *       *

It’s a stiff neck that has no turning when a short skirt goes by.

       *       *       *       *       *

I hope that when I die they’ll pour me back in the bottle. So do other

       *       *       *       *       *

London Stuff

He had been married about a year and had taken to spending his evenings
out West with the boys. One night his conscience worried him, and he
thought he would phone his wife to have dinner with him.

“Hello, kiddo,” he began. “Slip on some old clothes and run down and meet
me on the quiet. We’ll have a good dinner and then smear a little red
paint around. How about it?”

“I’ll be delighted to join you,” was the reply. “But why not come up to
the house, Jack, and get me? There’s nobody home.”

Today the young husband spends every evening at home. His name is Philip.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh! Gawsch!

A stripping bee took place at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bohumil Albrecht
Thursday evening. Those present Were the Mesdames Katherine Mach, John
Marek, John Jelimek, Kenzel Pokorny, Mr. and Mrs. John Novotny, Mr. and
Mrs. John Hanna and Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Wessely, Sr.—(From Kewauness
(Wis.) Press.)

       *       *       *       *       *

The High Cost of Company

Sign in European hotel, Manitowoc, Wis.: “If you have company over night
an extra charge of 50c will be made.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A fatted calf maketh a full stocking.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then His Nerve Failed

One of the loveliest of girls went into a gents’ furnishing store
to buy a necktie. She hesitated a moment, and then asked in a nice,
straightforward way: “I want to put it on, please. Would you tie it for

The clerk felt a little nervous, especially as the other fellows were
watching him, but she had already pulled off the necktie that she wore.
He said, “Certainly,” and, putting the new one around her neck as she
ducked her head. She wore a dainty white silk shirt. When the tie was
tied, the ends seemed a bit long, and he suggested: “Do you wear the ends
tucked in?” “Yes,” she returned with unembarrassed absentmindedness. At
this point his courage failed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

She Knew the Truth

“Both of dese here gents,” said the witness, Mandy Thomas, rather
impressed with the importance of being in court, “was standing at the
corner conversin’ with each other pretty hot an’ pointed like.”

“Relate the conversation,” said the prosecutor.

“Ah don’t jest remember, sah,” said Mandy, “’cept dat dey was callin’
each other what dey is.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Women used to carry money in their stocking, but it’s not safe to put
money in public places now.

       *       *       *       *       *

A rash marriage is only skin deep.

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Whiz Bang has a double-winner for Smokehouse fans next issue! “The Lure
of the Tropics” and “The Far East.”_

    _“O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps_
    _I hunted him many a moon,_
    _Then found my man in a long pit pan_
    _At the edge of a blue lagoon._

    _“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;_
    _It ended a two-year quest,_
    _And I left him there with an empty stare_
    _And a knife stuck in his chest.”_

_That’s the swing of the most noted poem of the tropics, “The Far East,”
an excerpt from which follows, is familiar to Philippine war veterans_:

    _“By the mud hole down in Subic_
    _Looking lazy at the bay,_
    _There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,_
    _And I think I hear her say:_
    _‘Come you back you malo soldier_
    _Come you back from o’er the sea,_
    _Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,_
    _Por-a-que! You jaw-bone me?’”_

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hoboes’ Convention

By George Liebst

    You have heard of big conventions,
      And there’s some you can’t forget,
    But get this straight, there’s none so great
      As when the hoboes met.

    To Portland, Oregon, last year
      They came from near and far;
    On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,
      They rode on every car.

    Three hundred came from New York state,
      Some came from Eagle Pass;
    That afternoon, the third of June,
      They gathered there en masse.

    From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”
      And “Jack the Katydid”;
    With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazoo
      Came “San Diego Kid.”

    And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”
      Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”
    “Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,
      “Big Mac” from Mackinack.

    I saw some boys I’d never met;
      A bo called “New York Spike,”
    “Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,
      And “Mississippi Ike.”

    Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,
      Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;
    And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico
      Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

    “St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”
      Fixed up a jungle stew,
    While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”
      Croaked gumps for our menu.

    The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song
      Along with “Desp’rate Sam”;
    And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park
      Clog-danced with “Alabam.”

    We gathered ’round the jungle fire,
      The night was passing fast;
    We’d all done time for every crime,
      And talk was of the past.

    All night we flopped around the fire
      Until the morning sun;
    Then from the town the cops came down—
      We beat it on the run.

    We scattered to the railroad yards,
      And left the “bulls” behind;
    Some hit the freights for other states,
      And many rode the “blind.”

    Well, here I am in Denver town,
      A hungry, tired-out bo;
    The flier’s due, when she pulls through,
      I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

    That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—
      I’ll make her on the fly;
    It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,
      I’m off again—Good Bye!

       *       *       *       *       *

Mushy Stuff, Eh?

    He blushed a fiery red,
    Her heart went pittypat;
    She gently hung her head,
    And looked down, at the mat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mary Jane

_Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium

    Oh, she promised to meet me
    When the clock struck seventeen,
    At the stockyards, just three miles out of town,
    Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the
    Tough old Texas steers
    Sell for sirloin steak at
    Eighteen cents a pound.


    Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,
    She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,
    She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.
    Although her lower teeth are phoney
    From eating Swift’s bologna,
    She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

       *       *       *       *       *

Casey’s Revenge

_Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?” Here’s a
baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition. He replies to the
old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking
out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own
Mudville nine. Heave ho to this “Curve”_—

—By James Wilson.

  There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
      There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.
  “Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
      And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.”
  All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,”
      They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.
  And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
      While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

  The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,
      And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.
  And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;
      The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
  All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come
      To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
  And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,
      He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

  “Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;
      But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
  Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun
      Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”
  The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
      But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.
  The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
      When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

  Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,
      A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
  But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night
      When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at
  A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—
      When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
  His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate
      He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

  But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;
      There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.
  They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”
      But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
  The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;
      Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.
  Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—
      “Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

  No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.
      But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?
  A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew—
      A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
  About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight,
      The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
  Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;
      But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

  Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
      And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;
  And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;
      But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

       *       *       *       *       *


By a Former Acting-assistant Buck Private, Budd L. McKillipps.

    Last night I was at a party
    And some fellow sang a song,
        A song I’d heard,
        But this poor bird
    Had half the words all wrong.

    He sang a soldier ballad,
    But it lacked the army tang;
        It sounded strange
        To hear the change,
    These were the songs he sang:

    _Mademoiselle from Armentieres;_
        _Parley Vouz,_
    _Mademoiselle from Armentieres;_
        _Parley Vouz,_
    _Mademoiselle from Armentieres,_
    _She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,_
    _Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz._

    I’d tell you the way we sang it
    Around the cafes in France,
        (The words grow worse
        With every verse),
    I don’t dare take a chance.

    _Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,_
    _With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,_
    _And the non-commissioned officers in the tool house_
    _While the privates in the mess hall running wild;_
    _The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,_
    _They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks._
    _Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—_
    _The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;_
    _Then it’s home boys, home;_
    _That’s where we ought to be,_
    _Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;_
    _We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the pole_
    _And we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold._

    That wasn’t the way we sang it,
    To comrades garbed in O.D.;
        There’s some may tell
        The real song, well—
    You’ll not find out from me.

    _I want to go home, I want to go home,_
    _The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;_
    _They certainly all feel sorry for me;_
    _I want to go home_
    _I’m here with a busted knee._
    _Oh, hell, I wish I was well,_
    _I want to go home._

    I cried when I heard him sing that,
    ’Twas a song we sang in Brest;
        When long days crept
        And boys were kept
    In stockades under arrest.

    Oh, why do they change those ballads,
    Till nothing’s left but the air?
        They’re made for men
        So sing them when
    There’s no darned women there.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tribute to the Painted Girl

By Grayce Moody.

    There are girly girls and whirly girls,
    And girls who are bashful and shy;
    There are gay brunettes and dizzy blondes,
    And the girl with the wicked eye.
    There’s the haughty girl who sits on the world,
    As the honey from life she sips,
    But give me the girl the world calls bad,
    The girl with the painted lips.

    She’s there with a smile and a friendly word,
    When the world is going wrong,
    She will jolly you and cheer you up
    And tell you life’s a song.
    She will stick by you and play you square,
    No odds if you’re down and out,
    She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend,
    I’ll say she’s a regular scout.

    Her life is not all sunshine and roses
    This painted little maid,
    But she hides her hurts behind a smile
    And faces the world unafraid;
    Little she minds what the world says
    Or the “goody girls’” caustic quips,
    She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes”
    My girl with the painted lips.

       *       *       *       *       *

Monkey Shines

Two young men were riding on a street car which I chanced to squeeze onto
with some 249 other adults.

“I took my first drink last night, Algernon,” said one of the pair.

“Did you, Clarence? Honestly, where did you get it?” queried the other.

“Down at a near beer parlor. It was real near beer, too, with one-half of
one per cent alcohol and everything.”

“I’ve been drinking, too,” said the other; “I had two whole glasses of
near beer the other night. I was going to a party, you know, and wanted
to get plenty of pep.”

“Did you drink your near beer straight, or did you dilute it with water?”
asked Clarence.

“I drank it straight. I wanted to get the full kick. Straight, you know,
with a coupla chasers.”

“I certainly went crazy after I took that drink, though. I thought I was
going to try to sing at first,” said Clarence.

“I hope none of my friends saw the way I acted after I took that near
beer the other night,” Algernon put in. “I went batty right away. I
started telling all sorts of funny jokes and laughing ridiculously. Went
to see my girl immediately after, and she said she could tell I had been
drinking after I told her. She promised not to tell it, though.”

The two young men got off the car about this time, and a grizzled old
dog sitting in front of me bit the neck off a bottle of turpentine
he carried and drank the contents of the bottle. “I heard that pair
talking,” he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Liberty’s Love Lights

A young colored couple were sitting at the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
Henry was holding Mandy’s hand.

“Henry,” said Mandy, “Does you-all know why dey has such small lights on
de Statue o’ Liberty?”

“Ah dunno,” replied the Ethiopian swain, “unless it’s because de less
light, de mo’ liberty.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    Ashes to ashes,
    And fire to fire;
    He’s a weak old man,
    She’s a foxy vampire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rasping Rastus’ Roost

“What am de matter, Rastus? Ketch cold?”

“Yeah, purty bad, too.”

“How come?”

“Ya know, I put mah bed out in de yard, and doggone if Ah didn’t go to
bed las’ night wiff de gate open.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The head that is loaded with wisdom doesn’t leak at the mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Debt is a trap which a man sets and baits for him self and then
deliberately falls into.

_Arthur Neale’s Page_

I wish to assure the readers of Captain William’s Whiz Bang that what we
stand for is one country, one flag, one language and one-piece bathing

       *       *       *       *       *

    _’Cause what looks so cute_
    _As a nice bathing suit—_
    _Provided inside it_
    _The girl is a beaut?_

       *       *       *       *       *

We notice the Very Rev. “Golightly” Morrill says: “At Puerto Cabello one
goes in swimming au natural. The guide-book says: ‘The natural beauties
of the place are charming.’” That settles it! Puerto Cabello is where we
spend the vacation!

       *       *       *       *       *

    _We heard someone say: “I do admire Art”;_
    _We blushed as we thought of our striving,_
    _But the next thing they said was a stab to the heart._
    _’Twas: “Look! She’s so graceful when diving.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

Every year the bathing regulations grow stricter. If Gus, the hired man,
read the ones for Coney Island this year we think he’d say they wear
more in the sea than they do on the sidewalk.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Miss Venus, as perhaps you know,_
    _Had lost her pair of arms;_
    _It didn’t matter to her beau,_
    _The gal had other charms._

       *       *       *       *       *

As the refined woman single in vaudeville said: “I may be no riot—but
thank God, I’m satisfied.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Our friends in the song-writing game will be interested to learn that we
are now at work on a snappy little one-step entitled: “When Adam Said
‘Eve, You’re a Naughty Little Girl.’ She said: ‘Well, I don’t care A

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Monthly Prayer

“O Fadder, give thy servant this mornin’ de eye of de eagle and de wisdom
of de owl; connect his soul with de gospel telephone in de central skies;
’luminate his brow with de sun of heaben; pizen his mind with love for
de people; turpentine his ’magination; grease his lips with ’possum oil;
power; ’lectrify his brain with de lightnin’ of de loosen his tongue
with de sledge hammer of thy word; put ’petual motion in his ahms; fill
him plum’ full of de dynamite of thy glory; ’noint him all over with de
kerosene oil of thy salvation, and sot him on the fire. Amen!”

_The Raptures of Cupid_

    _In the April issue we published a model love letter, and
    since then we have been deluged with dimes from anxious swains
    asking us to hurry along another letter, as their sweethearts
    had answered the first and were expecting another. As we are
    always ready to sympathize with crooning youths, and wish to be
    obliging, we are offering another captivating love note in the

My dear Miss Gumptious: Every time I think of you, my heart flops up and
down like a churn dasher. Sensations of unutterable joy caper over it
like young goats on a stable roof, and thrill through it like Spanish
needles through a pair of two linen trousers. As a gosling swimmeth with
delight in a mud puddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic
rapture, thicker than the hairs of a blacking brush, and brighter than
the hues of a humming bird’s pinions, visit me in my slumbers; and,
borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach
out to grasp it, like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly. When I
first beheld your angelic perfections I was bewildered, and my brain
whirled ’round like a bumble bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood
open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted up my ears to
catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag and in
silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a thirsty man
swalloweth a tumbler of hot whiskey punch.

Since the light of your face fell upon my life, I sometimes feel as
if I could lift myself up by my boot straps to the top of the church
steeple, and pull the bell rope for singing school. Day and night you
are in my thoughts. When Aurora, rising from her saffron-colored couch,
blushing like a bride; when the jay bird pipes his tuneful lay in the
apple tree by the spring house; when the chanticleer’s shrill clarion
heralds the coming morn; when the awakening pig ariseth from his bed
and grunteth, and goeth forth for his morning refreshments; when the
drowsy beetle wheels to droning flight at sultry noontide; and when the
lowing herds come home at milking time, I think of thee; and, like a
piece of gum elastic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom.
Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse, powdered with gold, and
the brass pins skewered through your water-fall fill me with unbounded
awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat; your eyes
are glorious to behold. In their liquid depths I see legions of little
Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old Army cracker. When their
fire hit me upon my manly breast, it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a
load of bird shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is a chunk of Parian
marble, and your mouth is puckered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your
lips, like honey on a bear’s paw; and myriads of unfledged kisses are
there, ready to fly out and light somewhere, like bluebirds out of their
parents’ nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the windharp’s strain, or
the bleat of a stray lamb on a bleak hillside. The dimples in your cheeks
are like bowers in beds of roses—hollows in cakes of home-made sugar.

I am dying to fly to thy presence, and pour out the burning eloquence of
my love, as thrifty housewives pour out hot coffee. Away from you I am as
melancholy as a rat.

Sometimes, I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears,
and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth
fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits; and my soul is
pierced with doubts, as an old cheese is bored with skippers.

My love for you is stronger than the smell of patent butter, or the kick
of a young cow, and more unselfish than a kitten’s first catterwaul. As a
song bird hankers for the light of day, the cautious mouse for the fresh
bacon in the trap, as a mean pup hankers after new milk, so I long for

You are fairer than a speckled pullet, sweeter than a Yankee doughnut
fried in sorghum molasses, brighter than the top knot plumage of muscovy
ducks. You are candy, kisses, raisins, pound-cake and sweetened toddy

If these few remarks will enable you to see the inside of my soul, and me
to win your affection, I shall be as happy as a woodpecker on a cherry
tree, or a stage horse in a green pasture. If you cannot reciprocate my
thrilling passion, I will pine away like a poisoned bed bug, and fall
away from a flourishing vine of life an untimely branch; and, in the
coming years, when the shadows grow from the hills, and the philosophical
frog sings his cheerful evening hymn, you, happy in another’s love can
come and cast a tear and catch a cold upon the last resting place of

                          Yours affectionately,

                                                               ANNY JOHN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Give Her a Ring Under the Eye

“What shall I give my girl for a birthday present?”

“Why not give her a book?”

“No, I think she has a book.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Where did you get the idea?”

“Right out of my own head, and I have enough left, to make a crazy-quilt.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Judging from spring styles, the only cap a girl will set for a man this
summer will be a kneecap.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Human Obsession

We’ve got a discharged soldier in our town who was gassed, and had his
leg shot off. He is forever looking for his lost leg, and often seems to
think a woman may have it, with the result that he is arrested every few
days on some woman’s complaint and is let go. We’d call that a pleasant

_Pasture Pot Pourri_

No, Madeline, “The Charge of the Light Brigade” does not refer to your
gas and electric bills.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bedroom Farcical Maxims

    Never retire in a garage unless you auto, and—
    Never sleep in a stable for a stall.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love is the intoxication of joy—marriage is the D.T’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here We Are—In Again

    Policeman Knife had by his wife
      A set of bouncing twins;
    One took a cough which took it off
      From this abode of sins;
    Number one no sooner died
      And into the coffin slid,
    When number two took the flu
      And joined the other kid.

       *       *       *       *       *

She only weighs two pounds less than a horse.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

    I got a girl named Stella,
    She’s got a mouth like an open umbrella;
    She’s knock-kneed, crippled, her eyes turned in—
    But a darn good girl for the shape she’s in.

       *       *       *       *       *


Rocks whereon greatest men have often wrecked.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If all the trees had limbs like thine,
    I think the woods would be divine.

       *       *       *       *       *

“No one seems to kick about the high cost of hooch these days.”

“Of course not; the kick is in the drink.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They were married and lived happily ever after—next day.

       *       *       *       *       *

_I asked our stenog. why firemen wear red suspenders. She said, “Those I
know don’t.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

I know a man without a sin—he is dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kiss Fighters

Rose is game; Mary’s pretty small; Nellie fights back,—but I like them

       *       *       *       *       *

Life is just one damnthing after another—and love is just two damnthings
after each other.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why do you wear your stockings inside out?

Because there is a hole on the other side.

       *       *       *       *       *

A news item says knee pants for men are bound to come. I wonder if the
women will stand on the street corner and admire our shapely (?) laigs?
And will men wear silk hose of green and pink and purple hues, with
“Jacob’s ladders” showing? Let us pray.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alphabetical Stuff

    Y Y U R
    Y Y U B
    I C U R
    Y Y 4 Me.

But we won’t keep you in suspense—Two wise you are, two wise you be; I
see you are, too wise for me.

       *       *       *       *       *

Teacher—“Willie, can you tell me the definition of an hangar?”

Willie—“A place where airplanes are hung.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Montevidious Comparison

(From the Montevideo, Minn., American)

In Albert Lea, the other day, a man was shot dead when found with another
man’s wife. If this practice were strictly adhered to in Montevideo the
undertakers would be rushed to death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pertinent Question

(From Portland Oregonian.)

Young womanhood that wears wrist bottles and check corsets is not typical
of the best. Do their mothers know their route?

       *       *       *       *       *

Tell It to the Judge

In a recent scandal case in New York, a lady declined to answer a
question because, she said, “It wasn’t fit to tell decent people.”

“Oh, well,” replied the lawyer, “just step up and whisper it to the

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Short Story

    He—Cold, Hon’?
    She—About to freeze!
    He—Want my coat?
    She—Just the sleeve!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Glorious Daze

Two drunks hanging on a lamp post at 2 A. M.

No. 1—Shay, d’you know Tom Perkins?

No. 2—No, what’s his name?

No. 1—Who?

       *       *       *       *       *

Daytona Beach Ballad

    Come all you reformers, if you want to raise ’ell.
    Here comes a woman from the Breakers Hotel,
    With dropped-stitched stockings,
    And high-heeled shoes,
    A pack of cigarettes
    And a bottle of booze.

       *       *       *       *       *

Always smile—It gets you something.

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=Teny Sun=—The best way to prevent your dog from suffering with the heat
in July is to kill him in June.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Monk E. Byte=—I’m sure I can’t answer your question as to why a girl’s
eyelids drop down whenever she kisses a man. But where there’s no sense,
there’s no feeling, y’ know.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Manicurist=—I don’t blame you for refusing to manicure the nails of the
fellow with St. Vitus’ dance.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Out West=—If you are lonesome for Cape Cod, why not rub fresh herring on
yourself and dream you are back home?

       *       *       *       *       *

=L. Bow=—If your trousers are too short, pull up your shoes.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Hop Head=—Flop your ears, there’s a fly on your neck.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Pope=—Yes, Pope, we succeeded in making our own moon shine.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Ladies’ Man

    Tho I’m growing old and feeble,
      And my hair is turning grey;
    And my youth has died within me,
      And my teeth have passed away—

    Tho my strength is fastly failing,
      And a hump is on my back;
    And my bones are getting stiffer,
      And my heart is out of whack—

    Every time I go out walking,
      Some fair dame is bound to fall,
    Nothing in the world can stop them—
      I’m a Ladies’ Man—That’s all.

       *       *       *       *       *

My friend Wheeler says that many a man who is a good shot in this world
hopes he’ll miss-fire in the next.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some women allow their husbands to kiss them for sake of contrast.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some evening gowns allow a woman to put up a very bold front.

       *       *       *       *       *

The proper length for skirts as decreed by fashion is a little over two

       *       *       *       *       *

    Don’t cry Mary-Anne, and there’s no use to talk,
    ’Cause this is the time that we’ve both got to walk.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man never knows his real value until he’s sued for breach of promise.

_Jest Jokes and Jingles_

Gertie—“Why don’t you get a husband?”

Sophie—“Not for me, Gert, I’ve a friend who has one.”

       *       *       *       *       *


    A timid girl is Bessie Bates,
    She doesn’t kiss, she osculates.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Do you really love me?” she wrote.

“Referring to my last letter,” he promptly replied, “you’ll find that I
love you devotedly on page one, madly on page two, and passionately on
pages three, four and five.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Think It Over

    And the best and worst of this is:
    That neither is most to blame,
    If you’ve forgotten my kisses,
    And I’ve forgotten your name—

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Advice

    If your limb is pretty, show it;
    If your cash is plenty, go it;
    If your horn is noisy, blow it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why Did He Shaker?

Because he saw

    The Spoon Holder
    The Potato Masher
    The Lemon Squeezer
    The Egg Beater
    The Can Opener
    The Nut Cracker

But when he saw

    The Cork Puller

He gave her up.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Good Education

A Jewish father, entertaining some friends, told his four-year-old son,
Abie, to stand on a chair.

“Now, Abie,” he said, “jump to fadder.”

As soon as Abie jumped, the father stepped out of the way and let the
boy fall on his face on the floor. Asked why he had done so, the father

“I am teaching dot boy not to trust anybody, not even his own fadder.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Write Your Own Heading

A young lady went into a department store and told the clerk she wanted a
pair of garters.

“What kind?” he asked.

“Rubber,” said she.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, Gwendolyn, a divorce suit is the opposite to a union suit.

       *       *       *       *       *

Little Willie’s definition of a kiss is something I got in my mouth and
you got in your mouth and we push our mouths together.

       *       *       *       *       *

            HE KISSED ME,
    And oh, the ecstacy of that fond embrace.
            HE KISSED ME,
    And he got a slap in the face.
            HE KISSED ME,
    And got a thump on the chin. But—
            HE KISSED ME,
    Agin and agin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Monthly Motto

Have you a little wimpus in your home?

       *       *       *       *       *

Nowadays a girl doesn’t think she is well dressed unless she is almost

       *       *       *       *       *

Some girls are built for short dresses while others use poor judgment.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Miss Failure thinks she has you cinched, then along comes Miss
Success, who bids you follow her and wear diamonds.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cheer Up, Brother!

Anticipation is the mother of realization, so there is nothing like
hoping for the best.

       *       *       *       *       *

It Feels So Good

A patient at the Traverse hospital for insane had a mallet in his pocket,
and at regular intervals he would take it out and bang himself over
the head with it. Asked why he punished himself that way, he replied:
“Because it feels so good when I stop.”

       *       *       *       *       *

But for God’s sake, don’t tell my mother. She thinks I’m running a blind

       *       *       *       *       *


Ah, and well do we know the brand.

       *       *       *       *       *

“You gotta show me, I’m from Missouri,” said the big man.

“Well, watch me—I’m from Elgin,” said the little fellow.

       *       *       *       *       *

By crossing a rum hound with a Volstead water spaniel, efficient R
hounds have been produced. These dogs have an unerring scent for
prescription-peddling physicians.

       *       *       *       *       *

When asked to join the game he declined, saying he had a hundred reasons
for not playing. “Give us one,” they asked.

“The first one is, I haven’t any money.”

“You can stick the other 99 in your hip-pocket,” came the final chorus.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Speaking of famous springs,” said the tramp to the tourist, “I bathed in
the spring of ’86.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_Many are dressed, but few are clothed._

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no prospect of an early reduction in the wages of sin.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sad, Sad Tale

    Lotsa money,
    Blown money,

       *       *       *       *       *

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

Robert W. Service’s great poem will take a leading place in the WINTER
ANNUAL of Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang out in October, together with “The Girl
in the Blue Velvet Band,” “The Face on the Barroom Floor,” “Lasca” (in
full), Langdon Smith’s “Evolution,” and scores of other red-blooded gems.
In addition to the Smokehouse Poetry section, there will be stories,
jokes, jests, jingles, mail bag, questions and answers and a galaxy of
illustrations. The Annual will be apart from the regular October issue
and will be on sale as long as the supply lasts. Our first annual, 1920,
sold out within two weeks. Only three months to wait.

       *       *       *       *       *

Special Sale on 3,700 Books of =FAMOUS PICTURES=

Reproduced from Renowned Paintings by the World’s Greatest Artists.

The Finest Collection of Figure Studies Ever Published



With the Greeks and Florentines it was a delight in the beauty of form,
in which the human figure exceeds all other beautiful things. The
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exquisiteness of Light and Shade, the flesh of a woman was more lovely
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figure no longer stood for the expression of abstract idea, but was
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Photographic reproduction in black and white of the famous paintings of
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    =For Art Students Especially This Book Is a Valuable Aid—Over 300
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    One copy of Famous Pictures, Book and Catalogue “A”           =$4.00=
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Shipped by sealed express within five hours after receipt of order.

                        THE AMERICAN ART COMPANY
                          Wholesale and Retail
                     JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN, U. S. A.

       *       *       *       *       *


We are headquarters for photographs and pictures of all kinds, offering
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    Catalogue “A,” 1921 edition, now ready. Contains illustrations
    of 409 Nude and Semi-Nude, 304 Bathing Girl, 192 Movie Star and
    49 Statuary Photographs. More than 1,000 illustrations in all.
    Shipped by PREPAID EXPRESS. Price =$1.00= per copy.

     25 Art Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             $2.00
     25 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             2.00
     50 Art Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike              3.00
     50 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             3.00
    100 Art Nude and Semi-Nude, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            5.00

     12 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            $1.00
     16 Statuary Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike              1.00
     20 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          1.00
     20 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            1.00
     50 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          2.50
     50 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            2.50
    100 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          4.00
    100 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            4.00
    250 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike         10.00
    500 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike         20.00

     12 Art Nudes, size 8 × 10, excellent poses, all different      $10.00
     25 Art Nudes, size 8 × 10, excellent poses, all different       15.00
     50 Art Nudes, size 7½ × 9½, our leading sellers, no two alike   25.00
    100 Art Nudes, size 7½ × 9½, excellent poses, all different      50.00

     25 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                         $10.00
     50 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                          20.00
    100 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                          35.00


In order that you may become acquainted with our line of beautiful nudes,
we will forward, upon receipt of =Ten Dollars=, a special assortment of
twelve genuine photographs, comprising four each of the following sizes:
7½ × 9½, 8 × 10 and 11 × 14. If the selection does not prove entirely
satisfactory upon receipt, you may return the same to us intact, and we
will immediately refund your money.

Art Nudes are shipped by sealed express. Remit by money order or bank
draft. All orders shipped promptly.

                        THE AMERICAN ART COMPANY
                          Wholesale and Retail
                     JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN, U. S. A.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Whiz Bang_ is on sale at all leading hotels, news stands, 25 cents
single copies; on trains 30 cents, or may be ordered direct from the
publisher at 25 cents single copies; two-fifty a year.


*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 22, July, 1921 - America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy" ***

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